Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

  He found parking at the back of the car park, hardly an ideal place when you were trying to get someone away in a hurry. The trouble with airport parking, you couldn’t get it where you wanted it. These days you often couldn’t get it full stop. Had to factor in half an hour just to find a bay. Thousands of bloody cars like half the city had flown elsewhere. Mace shrugged off his anorak, threw it into the boot. Noticed the negligee bulging from the pocket. He let out a long “faaack”. The last thing he needed was Christa finding something like that. Also he couldn’t remember taking it. The sight of the flimsy material strangely unsettling. As if there were moments in Sheemina February’s flat his mind blanked on. ‘No ways,’ he said aloud. ‘No ways’ – balling the negligee into his fist. He slammed down the boot. Told himself, cool it, boykie. Just get rid of this thing. On the way to the terminal building Mace dropped Sheemina February’s nightwear into a rubbish bin. Kept on walking like it hadn’t happened. Mace getting his focus back. He checked in. Was told, ‘Have a nice day further, Mr Bishop,’ as the attendant circled the boarding time and gate on his pass.

  ‘What do you mean further?’ said Mace. ‘It hasn’t begun nice.’

  He checked his watch: 5:15. He’d had what? Four hours’ sleep. Less than that. He needed coffee. He got it, only problem it tasted like shit, left a tarry coating on his teeth.

  ‘Have a nice day further, Mr Bishop.’

  He phoned estate agent Dave, to hell with it being twenty-five minutes past five on a dark winter morning.

  Dave came on sleepy. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Put your glasses on and you’ll know,’ said Mace.

  A pause. ‘Mace, my old son, what’s the time?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Mace. ‘What matters is you told me you had connections. Showed a colleague a picture of Sheemina February and she IDed her. Told you she’d sold her the apartment.’

  ‘Come again? What’s this, Mace? What’s this you’re on about? Christ, my son, it’s half past five. I don’t wake up for two hours.’

  ‘Dave. Dave,’ said Mace. ‘Stay with me. A quick answer’s all I need. Your friend, the agent, who sold Sheemina February her flat. Did it happen like that? Did you go to her, or did she come to you? Did you ask your friend about Sheemina February or did she give you Sheemina February’s address?’

  ‘Jesus, Mace. I’m not with you.’

  ‘Did you ask your friend about Sheemina February or did she give you Sheemina February’s address? Simple question, Dave.’

  ‘I dunno. I went to her. How can I remember? It’s bloody black as a witch’s anus, colder than her tit, you phone to ask stupid questions.’

  ‘Not stupid, Dave. You went to her. Is that right? Is that what happened?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’ He yawned. ‘I’m cutting you now, my son, before I wake up proper.’

  ‘Dave.’

  Too late. Mace hit redial but estate agent Dave had switched off his phone. The voicemail voice said he could leave a message. Mace did. ‘Think about it, Dave. It’s important.’

  No sooner disconnected than his cell rang: Oosthuizen.

  Mace frowned, said, ‘You checking up on me?’

  The Oosthuizen pause. Then: ‘Mr Bishop, I am a concerned man. In this world concern is …’

  ‘I don’t need your bullshit,’ said Mace.

  A silence, briefer than usual. ‘I am not insulting your professionalism.’

  ‘Could’ve fooled me.’

  ‘Mr Bishop, please. As I told you I have much at stake. My colleague is a very valuable man. He was being pursued, he went to ground. Now he is on the move again. In less than two hours his passport number will be scanned into a computer. At that point the hunters will pick up the scent again. Do I make myself clear? Do you understand why I am a concerned man?’

  ‘If he’s not let through passport control there’s not much I can do.’

  ‘Oh they’ll let him through, Mr Bishop. Passport control is not the problem. It is what happens afterwards that is.’

  Wonderful, thought Mace.

  ‘Good luck, Mr Bishop. There is much resting on your excellent capabilities.’

  Mace disconnected before Magnus Oosthuizen could say anything like, ‘Have a nice day further.’

  All he needed now was bad news from the Dinsmor side to really make it a nice day. He found it in the newspaper under a report headlined ‘Kidnapping breakthrough’. Was enough to shoot red flashes across Mace’s eyes.

  30

  KIDNAPPING BREAKTHROUGH

  Police are confident that they will soon have tracked down the kidnappers of the American businesswoman, Veronica Dinsmor.

  ‘Our investigations are at a delicate stage,’ said a police spokesperson. ‘We expect a breakthrough at any time.’

  They would not comment further.

  Veronica Dinsmor was kidnapped on Sunday evening shortly after arriving in the country. She was abducted during a shootout between her security personnel and the kidnappers at a house in Gardens. Two of the kidnappers were killed and one of the managers of Complete Security, Pylon Buso, was wounded.

  Complete Security is owned and run by Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso. Recently a client of theirs was gunned down on the highway while Mr Bishop was transferring him from the airport to the city.

  Commenting on the Dinsmor kidnapping, the police commissioner said that although there was no evidence that a syndicate was behind the spate of similar attacks on high-profile people visiting Cape Town, security companies should be particularly vigilant.

  ‘The Dinsmor kidnapping should never have happened,’ he said. ‘There’re too many chancers with a gun and smooth talk taking advantage of the number of important people doing business here or holidaying in the city. When things go wrong, people get hurt.’

  Asked to respond to the commissioner’s comment, Mr Bishop said, ‘That’s bullshit.’

  In May Mr Bishop’s wife was murdered in the family home.

  Mr Bishop and his partner founded Complete Security ten years ago after returning to the country with the advent of democracy. According to various sources, both men were active in the armed struggle as weaponry suppliers to MK, the armed wing of the ANC. Mr Bishop denies any links to mercenary organisations.

  31

  Silas Dinsmor, wearing the hotel bathrobe, opened the door to the room service waiter with his morning coffee.

  ‘You want room service,’ the guard from Complete Security had told him, ‘you go through me. You need anything, another bog roll, you go through me.’

  Silas Dinsmor didn’t like the man’s attitude. Tried to get Bishop to assign the young black babe with the pretty arse but that didn’t happen. Pissed off Silas on account of he was the sucker paying the bill. Got his back up to the extent, Silas Dinsmor thought, screw you, buddy, I’ll order my own room service.

  And did.

  And now there was a package on the tray along with his coffee.

  ‘Where’d that come from?’ he asked the waiter.

  The waiter said he didn’t know.

  Silas phoned the reception desk, asked where the package on his tray had come from.

  The receptionist said a delivery man dropped it off ten minutes earlier.

  Silas said, that was it? A man dropped it off. No receipt, no delivery papers?

  That was it, she told him. She’d signed the delivery book, and the bike-man was gone. Hadn’t even taken off his helmet.

  Silas Dinsmor called Mace Bishop, got his voicemail. Called the babe, Tami Mogale.

  ‘I’m in the traffic,’ she told him. ‘Taking kids to school.’ She also told him that he should’ve gone through their guy, that they set up these procedures for a reason. That he was to give the package to their guy until she got there. Which would be another twenty minutes or more. What sort of sized package was it anyhow?

  Silas Dinsmor said, ‘CD size. In a brown padded envelope.’

  ‘That’s probably what it is,’ said Tami, ‘a CD.’

&
nbsp; ‘Or an anthrax bomb. You people do anthrax bombs.’

  ‘Just get it to our guy,’ said Tami, ‘and sit tight.’

  Thirty minutes later she was in Silas Dinsmor’s room, the package in one hand, her cellphone in the other clamped to her ear on the line to Pylon.

  Pylon saying, ‘Shouldn’t be a problem, Tami. Open it. I would.’

  ‘You’re not here,’ she said.

  She heard Pylon sigh. ‘Ah, save me Jesus, Tami, fetch me if it’s that big a deal.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  She put the phone on loudspeaker. Said to Silas, ‘Okay, I’m going to open it. Or you can wait in the corridor.’

  Silas still in the hotel bathrobe, skinny legged and barefoot. Not so much as the faintest definition of a calf muscle, Tami saw. Legs like dowel sticks.

  ‘What if it’s coated in anthrax?’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why’d that be even vaguely a possibility?’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Pylon. ‘Just open it, Tami.’

  Silas Dinsmor moved away two paces but stayed in the room.

  Tami opened the package, describing what she was doing. Inside a DVD in a plastic case. She told Pylon this.

  ‘Play it,’ said Pylon.

  ‘I’m getting there,’ said Tami, ‘don’t rush me.’

  Up on the television screen came a picture of Veronica Dinsmor slumped on a hard-backed chair. Her head flopped forward. A gag across her mouth. Ankles taped together. Hands tied behind her. The focus tightened on her face. A hand came into the frame, tilted her head back. A finger pushed up her eyelid, the camera coming in closer to catch the roll of her eyeball.

  ‘What’re you seeing?’ said Pylon. ‘What’s going on there?’

  Tami replayed, giving him moment by moment commentary. When she got to the hand coming into the frame, Pylon stopped her.

  ‘What’s the colour of the guy’s hand?’

  ‘White,’ said Tami.

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Pylon.

  ‘I’m not colour-blind. He’s a whitey.’

  ‘Or he’s wearing gloves. Surgical gloves.’

  A voice said, ‘What we want, Mr Silas Dinsmor, is your full cooperation.’ The voice computerised.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Pylon.

  Tami went back, replayed it.

  ‘What we’re watching now,’ she told Pylon, ‘is the camera panning away from Mrs Dinsmor to show one, two dead bodies. Shot. Not much blood. Looks like they’re in a factory area. Something like that.’ Then blackness. ‘End of the movie. What you want me to do?’

  ‘Get hold of Mace first,’ said Pylon, ‘then I’ll tell Captain Gonz. Mace must’ve landed by now.’

  32

  Mace had. Touchdown five minutes later than scheduled at 07:55 but five minutes wasn’t critical to Mace’s way of thinking. Max Roland would already have landed. If Max Roland’s passport going into the system had woken the watchmen they’d be gathering, wanting to get their man tagged, setting up the pieces for the endgame. Nothing here that could be helped. The fun came later back in Cape Town.

  Mace was relaxed about this. He fished out his cellphone as about him in the aircraft went off the happy jingle of the Nokia switch-on. He joined the chorus, the sms buzz letting him know there were two messages.

  A voicemail from Captain Gonsalves: ‘Meneer Bish, listen up, pellie.’ Mace grimacing at the chewing slurps as the cop rearranged the tobacco plug so he could talk. ‘Two bodies phoned in. Guess who? Our friends Zuki and Kortboy. No sign of the Dinsmor lady. The plot thickens, meneer.’

  Mace checked the time. The call had come in half an hour earlier. Now what? A bit hectic getting rid of the foot soldiers. Spoke of extreme nastiness. You didn’t need a sixth sense to work out this was going to end badly.

  The message from Tami to call her asap.

  Mace waited until he was off the plane, down the escalator out of the arrivals hall, legging it to the international terminal through a stream of tourists. How it must be landing here for the sun and safari jaunts to be told, you want a local flight? Wheel your luggage that-a-way for about a click. Sorry no transfers. Sorry about the building site. Just sorry, hey. We’re building you a superstar facility. Welcome, welcome.

  The man in the arrivals hall picked out Mace with no trouble. Compared him with a fan of mug shots he held in his hand. Excellent likenesses. Spot-on ID. Even dressed the way he’d been told he’d be dressed: black chinos, grey rollneck, black leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head, not carrying anything but a cellphone. Walking purposely, not scanning the cluster of drivers holding up name boards. Heading out the door paying more attention to his phone than the situation. Clearly not expecting anything.

  The German phoned his colleague in the international hall. Said in English that Herr Bishop was on his way, described his dress. Was told just as well as tricky Max was getting anxious. Looking about him all the time. Toying with his cellphone like he wanted to make a call. They both laughed and disconnected.

  The man took the escalator upstairs to the departure terminal, checked in for the ten o’clock Cape Town flight. He went through security, found a cafe that sold stale croissants and piss-poor coffee. A long way from Frankfurt. He broke out two Rennies as a precaution. Talk about getting a taste of what was coming.

  Mace outside in the cold air, his breath visible, called Tami.

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘We got to talk,’ she said.

  ‘That’s why I’m phoning.’

  ‘A DVD came this morning for Dinsmor. Quick delivery, handed in at the reception desk by a biker in a helmet. Reception sent it up to our client with his morning coffee.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous. So much for security.’

  ‘So much. Anyway …’ Tami gave Mace a rundown of the visuals and the message.

  ‘Just that? “What we want, Mr Silas Dinsmor, is your full cooperation.”’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Mace said, ‘Hang on, let me think.’ Gave it some thought dodging through the stream of tourists, keeping his pace at a fast clip. The hijackers were dead. Contact had been made but no ransom. Had to be they were after Dinsmor next. Had to be too there were serious people involved. People who didn’t mind killing. ‘Okay,’ he said, taking a flyer, sounding confident, like Mace Bishop knew exactly how this would play out, ‘there’s going to be more. Probably sooner than later.’ He told her about the message from Gonsalves. ‘Don’t know how he got onto the bodies but you better get this to him. And watch Dinsmor, Tami. Closely.’

  ‘How’m I supposed to do that and get this to Gonsalves?’

  ‘Your problem.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Pleasure’s all mine. Now I’ve got to go.’

  ‘There’s another thing,’ said Tami, ‘about Christa.’

  Mace groaned. ‘If it’s her attitude, I apologise.’

  ‘It’s that, and something else.’

  ‘So what else?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Something.’

  ‘This’s too vague for me, Tami. I do facts not feelings.’

  ‘Something’s up with her, Mace. Maybe it’s drugs, maybe it’s something else.’

  ‘Like grief?’

  ‘Of course grief. But grief plus. I don’t know.’

  ‘She’s hurting, Tami, that’s what. And don’t worry, I’m working on it.’ He walked into International Arrivals, into a chaos of people. ‘Got to go’ – disconnected her, scanning the faces for Max Roland. Wasn’t this ideal? Wasn’t this made for a cock-up.

  The Swede saw Mace come in, pause, look round. Not very professional this arrangement, on the other hand he cut Mace Bishop some slack because Max Roland made nobody’s life very easy. The Swede folded his newspaper, headed out the door towards the domestic departure terminal.

  Mace got an update on the flight from information. Yes, sir, it had landed on time. Yes, sir, the passengers would be through passport control and baggage clearance.

  He tr
awled the coffee shops, searching out the readers. Not many. Spotted the Ellroy from a few paces off, the big white type of the writer’s name, the book lying face-up on a cafe table. A fidgety man sitting at the table, playing with his cellphone, watching the world like a scared rabbit.

  ‘Max Roland,’ said Mace, introducing himself, ‘let’s go.’

  ‘You are late,’ said Roland, standing, ‘soon your people will be here following me.’

  Mace checked him out. A fit man, athletic in his movements, early forties, short blond hair, fashionable stubble. Chest hair sticking out of an open-necked shirt. Underdressed for the southern winter. A linen suit might cut it in Europe and Yemen, in Joburg Armani was as good as naked.

  ‘I don’t have any people,’ said Mace.

  ‘Your government’s people. The spooks. The spies. The secret agents. The government men who want my work.’ Roland grabbed the handle of his luggage, picked up his book. ‘So. We must vanish, Mr Bishop.’

  Mace thought, bloody wonderful. Another client who’d be a joy to work with.

  ‘It’s a bit of a walk,’ he said. ‘To departure.’

  ‘That is nothing. I am a runner,’ said Roland. ‘Marathon man.’

  And look what happened to him, Mace didn’t say, turning his head to roll his eyes instead.

  He led Max Roland to the upper deck, set off at a brisk step towards the domestic terminal, Roland half a pace behind jabbering about getting out of Yemen before he was killed.

  ‘At least here they want me alive,’ he said. ‘You have a safe house for me?’

  ‘Everything’s arranged,’ said Mace. ‘Even a view of the sea.’

  ‘In Sana’a I had a view of a camel’s backside. And you could hear God speak in the mornings.’